


Where the Poppy Grows

by In_Cogito



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And you were there and you were there and you were there, Coma, Dark, Death, Dreams, Drug Use, Gen, Magic, Opium, Wizard of Oz, Wizards, don't do drugs kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27697394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Cogito/pseuds/In_Cogito
Summary: It all started with a knife.  After a mysterious package arrives, an old friend says goodbye, and strange circumstances drive him away from the only home he’s ever known, Malcolm sets out to uncover the truth about who he is and how he came to be a patient at a psychiatric hospital in the Emerald City.CW: Drug use, self-medication.Yeah, don’t do illicit drugs.Wizard of Oz AU.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Scene in Green

**Author's Note:**

> So I got to talking with a very good friend of mine who gave me the idea to do this AU. I don't know if I should put them on blast or not, but I think they wanted to give this AU a shot, too. Go check out their stuff! 
> 
> And hey! Friend! Thanks again! I had a lot of fun talking about this with you!
> 
> Enjoy~

Did it ever rain in the Emerald City?

It would have to, right? What was there to nourish the trees? The crops, the fields of poppy beyond the walls? Malcolm closed his eyes and took another deep breath in through his nose, gathering as much of the fresh air and scents of the courtyard as he could. He loved being out here. Of course, the Emerald City was always lovely. The boutiques and cafes and the lively crowds. He found himself wishing he could partake in it himself countless times, even though he knew it would be too much. Too many people. Too many sounds and lights ready to swallow him whole. It was a whole way of life he wouldn’t be able to keep up with. But the courtyard of the Lapidary Mental Hospital was a completely different story. He sat on the bench and watched the butterflies flutter and the bees buzz this way and that. Waves of red, purple, blue, and yellow undulated in the afternoon breeze. Yes, this was all he wanted. All he could ever need. 

“Malcolm. There you are. I thought I’d find you here.”

Yes, that was right. He didn’t have a legacy or a last name. He didn’t have a world to answer to, a family to take him away and keep him home. He was just Malcolm and all he had was this small corner in the whole Land of Oz. And that was just fine. 

The man looked up to his right and smiled. Dr. Simon Coppenrath had found him again, though Malcolm never felt that this place was something he needed to hide from. “What can I say? I have a soft spot for nature.”

“Quite understandable.” Simon took a seat next to Malcolm on the old wooden bench. He had gotten a hair cut since the last time they spoke. And he still didn’t seem to be getting enough sunlight, but that was to be expected. Dr. Coppenrath spent many hours with patients and alone in his office. Hardly ever seemed to slow down. “Lots of people feel at peace when connected to the great outdoors like this. I think the flowers were a worthwhile investment.” 

Malcolm hummed in agreement. “Did Dr. Le Deux send you to find me?”

“Oh, why would she? After all, I’m so well known for my initiative.” 

Malcolm laughed. And it was genuine. 

“So how are we feeling today? High? Low?” Half a moment passed, but Simon was quick to remind Malcolm of something he already knew. “This facility is your safe space. You can tell me absolutely anything and I won’t judge you for it.” 

Malcolm nodded again. Yes, it was true. And that was why he felt completely secure in telling Simon what happened last night. “I had another dream.”

“Did you now?” The doctor readied a pen and clipboard that he had taken out with him. “What kind of dream?”

“ . . . The usual.” 

“The usual is quite fantastical when it comes to you, Malcolm. I’m afraid that you’re going to have to give me more than that.” 

Maybe. Maybe. 

“Unless, when you say ‘the usual’ you mean the team?”

His chest felt warm and full. “Yes. My team.” Of course, the dreams were so absurd. But at the same time, they felt so real. And, admittedly, Malcolm was a rather lonely sort. So much so that he dreamt up a whole circle of friends that he went on adventures with, made the world a better place one dead body at a time. “We were investigating another murder.” 

“Yes? What was this one about?”

“The crime scene was very clean,” Malcolm explained. “It was so proper and poised. Almost like it was staged. The body was seated on the couch. He had his arm stretched out across the back, had one leg crossed in front of the other and was dressed in some of his finer clothing. And I couldn’t even tell he was dead at first. That’s how well preserved he was.”

“My, my.” Dr. Coppenrath scribbled his notes down as quickly as he could. 

“Necrophilia is the word that I remember the most clearly.”

“As in the idea of lusting for someone who’s already dead?”

“See, I don’t know if ‘lust’ is the right word,” said Malcolm. He idly folded his hands in his lap and tapped his thumbs together. “I think it was love. True love, in a funny sort of way. Lust is intense and short lived. But it would have taken hours to preserve the body in that way.” It was such a strange idea, but he felt safe enough to conclude the thought. “I think love is less about what you feel and more about what you do. A dead body can’t offer you any kind of reward or thanks, so it says a lot that someone would go so far to preserve it. Even if they don’t get anything in return for it.”

Dr. Coppenrath nodded, seeming to be in agreement. “You might be right,” he replied. “I’d do anything for my daughter. I love her more than life itself.” 

There was something odd about the way Simon said those words. He meant them for sure. Malcolm wasn’t stupid. And even as hopped up on poppy as he was, he had enough sense in him to send his poor mind into yet another vicious circle. On one hand, he was happy that Simon took him seriously. On the other . . . Was he really supposed to? 

Malcolm was mad. Insane. Mentally unsound. He had been ever since he had been dropped on the front step of the hospital. And yet here was a man in the medical profession who agreed with what he said and . . .

Well, what was Malcolm supposed to make of that? Should he be thankful? Or concerned for the doctor?

“So you know what-”

“Yes. I do.” Malcolm felt sad and hollow. Nonetheless, he wasn’t afraid of the truth. “Death in dreams is often a sign of rebirth and new beginnings.” 

“Yes, exactly.” More notes. “Sounds like you’ve been spending a lot of time around Dr. Le Deux.” 

He struggled to find his words. But Simon gave him more than enough time to put them together. “. . . So what does it mean when everyone around me is dying?”

“Well, what do you think it says about you?”

What did it say about him? Now that was a frightening thought. How could such a damning, detrimental truth be so simple, come in such a small package, such an odd and dismissable package as a dream? Nevermind. It was still possible. The subconscious had a strange way of acting and thinking and working. Sending a message was never so simple. A million meanings and a million puzzles could be taken from just a simple abstract thought, from images that Malcolm himself had no control over. 

And Simon remained ever patient with him. That was how he always was. 

So Malcolm did what he did best and told the truth. “That I’m not where I should be.” 

“. . . And that’s alright.”

Malcolm looked Simon in the eye. Simon wasn’t afraid. Not of his strangeness, not of his doubt. Not of the idea that he might be wrong. 

“Sometimes recovery takes a while. Sometimes you never truly recover. Only get used to the hurt, get better at living with it. And when you compare your progress to that of others, it only hurts you. You might even feel angry. Get to hating. To suffering.” 

“I drink poison and hope my enemy dies.”

Simon didn’t yell at him. He didn’t patronize him. Just sat there in the uncomfortable hole Malcolm had dug himself into and stayed there, just so he wouldn’t have to be alone. “What would you tell a friend who was in your shoes? Would you scold them for not getting better faster? Or remind them of how everyone else is moving on with their lives?”   
  


“Maybe I could tell you if I had a friends here.”

”Malcolm.”

Silence. His eyes burned. He shook his head. 

“You would try to be a friend to them, wouldn’t you? Listen? And offer support?” 

“. . . Yeah.” The man took the hem of his shirt and wiped his eyes. 

“That sounds like a very nice thing to do. I don’t think it would do any harm to try and be a friend to yourself in these trying times.” Simon pressed his pencil flat to the top of the paper and leaned back to admire the flowers. “I think this garden is a fine place to start.” 

“. . . Maybe a good book, too.”

“Well, with dreams like yours, who needs books?”

“Oh, but I can’t help but want to skip to the good part. The happy ending, you know?”

Simon laughed at that. The two fell into a companionable silence. A couple of other residents of the hospital had decided to enjoy the fresh air as well. One, a veteran still plagued by war nerves, hobbled up the length of the cobblestone. Another sat on the other side of the bed and tethered her fingers in the petals. And soon enough, they were on their way again. Nothing could ruin this peace, it seemed. 

“Oh. Malcolm, I almost forgot.”

“Hm?”

“A package came in for you today.” 

A package. Packages didn’t always come for someone as lowly and isolated as himself, yet his joy was immeasurable. A package. A package! And, inevitably, a letter! Someone who still gave a damn about him, no matter how far away they were! Only one person in the whole Land of Oz cared enough to go through such trouble. Malcolm opened his mouth, but never got to speak. 

“Yes, it’s alright to be excited. But I don’t think you want to be parading that around the hospital. Not this time, anyways.” 

Malcolm stilled. And he frowned. Simon was treating this gift as if it were a bad thing. Anyone would be able to tell from his tone of voice. Nevermind the way he drew himself up and tightened his posture. The way he looked over his shoulders and up to the sky as though he were trying to see who was watching him. As if some higher power decided that he needed to be watched. Malcolm slowly rose. Simon clasped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him in to whisper in his ear. “Your friend paid a lot of money to be able to get that package here.”

“. . . Like shipping?”

“More like a bribe.”

Oh. _Oh._ That . . . That was quite serious, wasn’t it?

He released him and pushed himself away. “You be careful with what’s in there, Malcolm. Don’t open it until you know for sure that you’re alone.” It was the most gravely Simon had ever spoken about something. 

The doctor tucked his clipboard under his arm and left, footsteps scraping across the cobblestone. And just like that, Malcolm was alone in the garden again. 

* * *

Good things came in small packages, right? 

The night came, after all. Cicadas sang against the cooler temperatures, yet the city’s inhabitants weren’t quite ready for sleep. Malcolm was lucky to have a window. As a result, he could see plenty. The green glow of what came to be his home never truly disappeared. The Emerald City never slept. Why would it? He never minded anyways. His room at the hospital was so plain and the lights outside gave it just the right amount of color, it seemed. 

But more importantly, Dr. Coppenrath was telling the truth. 

A nurse came and dropped the package off with the nightly tincture. Frankly, Malcolm could smell her long before the knock came on his bedroom door. And although he would rather have waited until after opening the package to take his medicine, the nurse wasn’t going to leave him alone until she was sure he had every drop. Standard practice, perhaps. The nurse left eventually. He locked the door and laid the package on the bed, practically vibrating with excitement. 

The letter. He should read the letter first, just like you read the card first on your birthday. Malcolm grabbed the envelope sitting under the wrap of brown paper, ripped it open and unfolded the letter inside. The aroma of pine sap and wood pulp slowly wafted up. A soft gust rose from the paper and his cheeks became cold. A resin lifted itself from the ink on the pages and spread through the whole room before coming together as it had countless times before. They were building something. The outline of legs and arms. A man in heavy furs, boots and old, worn robes. A tall and knotted staff sat in his right hand. He turned around. Snow seemed to dust his beard and eyebrows, yet nothing made Malcolm feel more warm or fond than seeing the face of his oldest friend. 

But something was off. 

The apparition gave a sad smile. _“Hey there, City Boy. I hope this letter finds you well enough. I wish I had good news, but . . . Well, I’ll let you decide what to make of it yourself. You’re smart enough to do that._

_“Something came up. Something serious. I need to leave Oz. By the time you receive this letter, I may already be gone. And I don’t know that I’ll be coming back any time soon. I can try to write but no promises. For now, there’s something I need to tell you.”_

Oh. Must be serious. Malcolm sat still and put his hands on his knees. 

_“. . . I’m sorry. I let you down, kid.”_

The man blinked. He cocked his head and drew his bows together. 

_“You don’t have to accept my apology. Hell, you can be as angry as you want to be with me. It’s not like I can talk back to you like this. And it doesn’t change the fact that I let you down and-. I . . . Gods, I really let you down.”_

Malcolm frowned. What was he talking about? If anything, he was the only one who . . . who really stayed. Truly stayed in spite of everything. Doctors left. Patients left. This man didn’t. Not once. Not until now, it seemed. 

_“I should have told you right from the beginning. I- Shit. I kept coming up with all of these excuses. It wasn’t the right time, I wasn’t ready yet, you weren’t ready for it yet, but no. It was my fault. And now I don’t know how much time I have left.”_

His mouth opened in protest. No words came out. 

_“Malcolm.”_ The apparition sat on the edge of the bed and reached behind Malcolm to rest a hand on the back of his neck. To comfort him and keep him grounded. _“You had questions. You had every right to ask questions, to want to know where you came from, why you don’t have a last name. Why a wizard would still talk to you after all this time.”_ His eyes glistened like melting snow. _“I didn’t have the courage to give you the truth. Now . . . it’s too late. But at least I can still give you a choice.”_

Malcolm stayed silent. 

_“Open the package. If you want to find out who you really are, then you’re going to need what’s inside.”_

The package sat innocently on the bed still. Tube shaped. It reminded Malcolm of the stalk of a sunflower for its thickness. Or maybe a couple of opium tincture bottles stacked up on each other. It was hard to tell. His medicine was already making him feel drowsy. 

_“You don’t have to do this, kid.”_ He looked so distraught. _“You’ve always been safe here at the hospital. The doctors only have your best interest in mind. There’s no shame in hiding it and just staying here. That is, if you would rather not know at all. But whatever you do . . . Please stay safe. I can’t handle another loss.”_

Malcolm nodded, knowing he was talking about his wife. The man sent pictures when she was still alive. It would have been nice to meet her. 

The image of him started to fade, flakes of white powder falling away and vanishing before they could touch the ground. His voice echoed and thinned into silence. _“Very truly yours, The Good Wizard of the North. Gil.”_

And Malcolm was alone again. 

With only one thing left to do. Malcolm picked up the package in both hands and curled them around the paper. It was difficult to tell. The packaging was rather thick but whatever was inside was heavy and solid. Was it made of metal? Maybe. He pulled the twine string off and unwrapped the dressings. 

It was a knife. 

A knife with a hilt made entirely out of solid ruby. 

And . . . And the blood. Blood! So much blood, staining his hands and his clothing and-.

And the vision was gone before Malcolm could even scream. 

His heart hammered in his chest. His hands were clammy when they found the wall behind him in his search for support. Breathe. He had to breathe. In through the nose and out through the mouth like the kind nurses taught him. The knife sat unopened on the bed, still and completely harmless. Of course. It was just a knife. A simple knife. How silly it was to be afraid of something like that. Everyone and their mother had one handy. For cooking and whittling and the like.

Knives are only dangerous if you need to kill someone. 

Malcolm’s head spun. He slid down to the ground. Perhaps sleep was best. It . . . it was a long day. Yes, that must be it. His already delicate constitution had been stressed today such that he was seeing things. Hallucinating. The doctors said he was prone to hallucinations. Maybe his mind even made up the whole exchange with Dr. Coppenrath. It was only logical. The simplest answer was likely the correct one. It would be fine. Everything would be fine. Malcolm would get some sleep and this would all make sense in the morning. 

. . . Surely . . . 

Malcolm wrapped the knife back up in the paper and hid it under the bed. He got under the covers, laid himself down, and stared out the window. The lights continued to dance across the city as though all were still well in the world. It would make sense in the morning. Surely everything would make sense in the morning. Somehow Malcolm still didn’t believe that, no matter how much he repeated it to himself. 

Eventually he entered a deep, yet troubled sleep with no memory of ever closing his eyes. 


	2. Caught Dead, Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely will be going back to older chapters to edit and tweak as I need to. I'm trying to be a little more brave about posting, but I have a feeling this fic is lacking in the requisite "Oz-ness" needed for a fic like this. If that makes sense. 
> 
> Do enjoy regardless!

A sudden tremor forced Malcolm out of his slumber. 

He didn’t know what time it was. But something was happening. Something urgent, something that got his nerves to flame and fray under the spell of his sedative. He forced his eyes open. A bright red glow surged against the green of the city outside and slowly receded. Smoke climbed higher and higher into the air. Was there an explosion? Must have been. He felt it run through the floors and the walls. The building still appeared to be in one piece still. Lucky. Malcolm pushed the covers off and stumbled out of bed. Everything felt heavy. His eyes couldn’t focus. But sure enough he found himself leaning over the window sill on both hands. 

The city seemed to hold its breath. One by one, every light shut itself off, every tower and street curled in on itself and hid under a thick blanket of darkness. Not even the stars wanted to come out. Malcolm leaned out the window. In the last shreds of crimson light he could what looked to be people gathered at the entrance. All points and armor and hidden faces and-

Guards. They were someone’s guards, nothing like Malcolm had ever seen before. A legion of twenty-three soldiers clustered around the front of the hospital. 

Something was wrong. 

No. No, it wasn’t. It was fine. Everything was fine. 

Breathe. He could breathe. 

Yes, breathe. Everything was fine. This was the Lapidary Mental Hospital. Of course he was safe. He was being silly again, but it was understandable. Those who had experienced trauma didn’t respond to stress properly. Mother nature wasn’t stupid. That didn’t mean she could be fooled, that the human body couldn’t mistake the stresses of everyday life as a threat to one’s well being. 

The body could be fooled into thinking there was danger. But it could also be fooled into thinking things were alright. 

Malcolm sat back on the bed and managed slow, deep breaths. They weren’t perfect, but that was alright. He just needed time. He brought his hands together. The rocking started without his being aware of it. Dr. Le Deux advised against it, but made exceptions when he was having a particularly hard time. Dr. Coppenrath said it would be fine in moderation. Generally they both advised that stimming should be avoided if it was harmful to the self. Picking, scratching, hitting. Hair pulling. But it was fine. This was his room and he didn’t feel the need to hurt himself when the stress became too much. Malcolm looked back out the window and rocked slowly, breathed slowly, massaged the webbing between his pointer finger and thumb. Everything was going to be ok. 

Eventually. 

Eventually he started to feel a sense of stillness and serenity within himself, however shallow it might have been. He clung to it, in his foolishness. Cling to breath, hold it in, and you die. Let it go and you carry on. Let things come and go and you carry on. Footsteps filtered in through the walls. Malcolm strained to hear them. Voices came from the other side of the locked door, growing stronger and more coherent as their owners walked closer and closer to his quarters.

One belonged to Dr. Coppenrath. He was talking to someone, someone with a rather amiable and cheerful disposition. It wasn’t right. Nevermind that Simon was up in the middle of the night or that he sounded awake enough to have been expecting someone to come to the hospital. Something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The pleasantness felt unnatural somehow. 

_ “To be fair, there is a . . .” _ Oh, that was Simon.  _ “Many are here because they still suffer from war nerves and the like. It’s such a delicate and vulnerable position to be in, even whilst medicated. A tour of the facility during the day would be acceptable, but a tour, scheduled at a later date and at night. No offense meant by it, I assure you.” _

_ “No, I understand.” _ That was the kind voice. The dangerous voice, belonging to a wolf fit snugly into a sheep’s suit.  _ “That’s quite thoughtful of you. I think the patients here are in good hands. And in such a clean and friendly facility.”  _

Malcolm reached under the bed and found the knife where he hid it a mere few hours ago. A pocket knife. Practical. It fit well in his hand. His palm and fingers curled around its weight and it brought him a strange sense of security. He curled his fingers in and pressed his thumb into the tiny knob. The blade snapped open. Three inches of silver gleamed against the night. Malcolm fought the urge to run his thumb along the edge. It was sharp- A swift, silent and reliable ally for how small it was. 

Was he going to have to use it?

Armed and wary, he crept closer to the door and pressed up against it. The footsteps came to a stop. Simon and his guest stopped in the hallway. The guest continued to speak.  _ “As a man of academia myself, I can’t help but respect you and what you do. Now, I’m not looking to check myself in but maybe you can still help me.”  _

_ “Uh, P-perhaps. Please, tell me. Anything.”  _

_ “. . . A very dear friend of mine passed away some time ago.”  _

_ “. . . Oh. I’m terribly sorry for your-” _

_ “Hush. Just listen.”  _

Malcolm pressed his ear flat to the door. 

_ “They passed away. Stabbed, I’m afraid, with clear and malicious intent. He was a good man. Hard-working, honest, studied magic as if it were as virtuous as the scripture he was brought up on. Full of potential, even in his late age. His death left a hole behind that will never be filled. And ever since I have been searching for anyone who might know what had happened. Simply put, my search has led me here.”  _

_ “You have my condolences, good sir. But this is an asylum. Not a morgue. I can’t help but be confused at what could have brought you here.”  _

_ “Well, Doctor, there’s nothing to be confused about. I have reason to believe that you’re protecting a murderer. Right here in these very walls.”  _

A murderer? At the hospital? Malcolm rose and backed away from the door. Surely, it was possible. It wasn’t normal to murder someone. It took a special type of person, a special type of horrible, awful person to put an end to someone’s life. And . . . and they were here. At the hospital. Maybe that was why the guards were here. Sure, there hadn’t been any murders since Malcolm had been admitted. No one had been hurt. But maybe someone would be hurt. And the guards were here to take them away and then no one would be hurt. That was an absence of pain. That was a good thing. 

Then why did Malcolm feel as though something terrible was about to happen? 

_ “You aren’t laying a hand on any of them!” _

_ “I’ve no need to. I don’t even need to talk to them. Play nicely and all I’ll need is a search of the rooms. Whoever possesses the knife with the ruby hilt is the culprit. Simple as that.”  _

Malcolm looked down what he was holding. His grip tightened yet his hand began to tremble. He staggered backwards from the door, breaths coming soft and quick, chest becoming tight once again. Was it true? No, there must be some mistake. The knife- It was a gift. From the Good Wizard. He said it would lead him to the truth about who he was and . . . 

Oh no. 

_ “Tell me- Whose room is this?” _

_ “They’re asleep now. If you want to ask questions, you’ll have to come back later.” _

_ “I believe I asked you a question.” _

_ “. . . The patient who resides here doesn’t have a last name. They’re a dead end, I assure you.” _

_ “Unlock the door, Simon. I have been very reasonable with you up to this point and I’m not afraid to take the matter in my own hands if need be.”  _

He couldn’t move. Every cell and nerve screamed, cried out for help, struggled to keep afloat amidst the new torrent of adrenaline and cortisol. There was a clamor outside the door. Dr. Coppenrath cried out and went deadly silent. Malcolm heard sizzling. The door knob glowed red. The metal became soft, sliding down the front of the door in a long, magmous blob. 

And so Malcolm ran. 

And ran.

And ran. 

It didn’t matter where he was going, how he launched himself out the window. The trees were blurring together. Yellow bricks disappeared into sticks and dirt. Strange beasts lurked above and below and all around and the city grew farther and farther away with every panicked step. 

He didn’t know how long he had been running for when he came back to his senses. His lungs burned. The ground was damp between his feet. Cicadas sang. Trees rustled. Wolves howled and owls belted out long, lonely hoots. Malcolm stumbled into a ditch, a hollowed out piece of ground tucked under the roots of an old oak. He needed to calm down. Make sense of things. Yes. He ran. Because he was afraid. They were looking for the one who held the knife with the ruby hilt and he never wanted to cause any trouble for anyone. So he ran and . . . He became a fugitive. Just like that. 

Malcolm held onto the roots. His eyes adjusted to the night. He could see the moon and the stars through the dying canopy of the forest. And back the way he came, he could make out the faintest outline of the city. Lights came back on, slowly but surely. Life and joy filled it like the honeyglow in one’s cheeks. It carried on just fine with one less man in it. 

Malcolm gave pause to think. 

What was going to happen now?

Would they be after him? 

Would he be running for the rest of his life? 

Malcolm leaned back into the dirt. He missed the flowers in the hospital courtyard. He missed the ceilings. He missed his bed and Dr. Le Deux and Dr. Coppenrath. And it was all gone. No amount of breathing or rocking or coping techniques would be able to fix that. 

He could still see them if he closed his eyes. And he could feel a hand on his back, hers or his, if he leaned far enough into the daydream. Dr. Le Deux might use examples from the other patients at the hospital, excluding their names out of respect. Dr. Coppenrath might talk about his own mother. Relating to his patients on a personal level was his usual style. 

Malcolm drew his legs up and folded his arms. Maybe this was loss, in a strange sort of way. Life keeps moving after loss. Everything was going to be ok. He just needed to hide for a while. He needed to calm down to sleep. It would all make sense soon. It would. 

He just . . . needed . . . 

. . . sleep . . .

. . . 

. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of mine said going to sleep in the woods was a bad idea. 
> 
> Fair enough. 
> 
> He still ain't gonna sleep good after that.
> 
> Leave a comment if you so desire! Thanks for reading!


	3. Ease on Down the Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Death, death of animals. I really did Sunshine dirty in this one.

Malcolm startled awake. Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was an insect or small rodent that had scurried across his lap. Nonetheless, he was pulled out of sleep and thrown head first into a chilly and crisp morning. His breath fogged before his eyes. His joints ached from the deep, hours long chill of the night he spent in the woods. Hell. That was what he got for running away in nothing but his night clothes, perhaps. 

Because . . . yes. That really did happen. Malcolm could tell now that, after at least half a night’s worth of sleep had passed, that it truly happened. 

The cadence of the forest had completely changed from the night before. In the soft, peach glow of a new morning, many smaller birds sang back and forth to each other. Bugs kept quiet for the most part, content with their own circles and nests and such. Either in the ground or elsewhere. Malcolm observed the sunrise. What little of it he could see, anyways. The trees were still . . . present. Looming and stalwart in their positions. He stretched one leg, the underside flat to the ground. And then the other. He couldn’t help the grunt that slipped out each time. It was still so cold. 

He could see the city if he leaned forward at just the right angle. Still alive. Still glowing, in its distinct kingly glory. Almost if that strange man hadn’t come in demanding where his friend’s murder was. 

To . . . seek vengeance. 

Malcolm took notice of a sensation that stood out against the rest. Something cold, heavy, and solid had pressed itself against his hip. It was the knife, securely folded shut and tucked in the waistband of his trousers. How it got there, he couldn’t say. Maybe he stuck it there in the panic from last night. 

_ “I have reason to believe you’re protecting a murderer.”  _

He took it in his hand. A red-stained reflection stared back. 

_ “Whoever possesses the knife with the ruby hilt is the culprit. Simple as that.”  _

The Good Wizard of the North would never frame Malcolm. He got that truth squared away before he began walking again. The city was left further and further behind him. Granted, Gil was also a private man regarding his affairs, especially in business. Which was alright. He was entitled to that. Most of their letters were spent talking about Malcolm and the going-ons at the hospital. 

He stopped in his tracks and looked back again. Their letters. He left them behind. Maybe they were in the same spot as when he left them, tucked snuggly in the old cigar box he kept under his bed. 

Or the stranger could have found them. Burned them. Used them. Maybe that was why Gil had to leave Oz. The both of them could be in danger. 

The fugitive kept walking. 

Gil had been there longer than Malcolm could remember. And naturally, that raised the question of “why”. He asked at several points. The topic was dropped and neither of them rushed to pick it back up. Gil always said he was smart. Maybe that was why he kept mum about things. Give away too much and he would start figuring it out, learning the truth. 

What truth? 

Funny how it didn’t seem to matter until he had to run away. 

Another thought came to mind: Malcolm really was being protected. It was undeniable that the Good Wizard had a hand in it. Maybe he sent funds. Struck a deal. And he never would have had to explain himself to Malcolm because it fell under the umbrella of his “affairs”. 

The city had gotten smaller behind him yet again. The top of the tallest tower just barely peeked over the hills and trees. That little croner was all he had and maybe it was all a lie. A well-meaning lie from the wizard, but a lie nonetheless. 

_ “I let you down, kid.”  _

Malcolm huffed. “Yeah. No shit.” 

And he kept walking. 

* * *

He was prone to worrying, according to the doctors at the mental hospital. An inordinate amount of worrying. Thus, poppy was used in treatment. Not to cure him, but to treat him. It was an abundant and versatile plant that could mitigate just about anything from insanity to toothaches. Spend enough time with a medical professional and take the walk to the local apothecary for a script and it was fairly easy to acquire. 

Malcolm found himself so lost in thought and worry that he passed through long swathes of the forest without being completely aware of it, regardless of how jumpy he had become. In hindsight, that was probably the first sign. 

Late morning. The sky had gone grey with a thin layer of clouds. As for the forest, well, it had become uncharacteristically quiet. Malcolm lost his appetite hours ago. It didn’t come back. He held the closed knife in both of his hands the whole way and continued to shamble over the dirt and the odd stick or stone. He’d passed the yellow brick road a time or two already and wisely avoided it. While there was a chance that he’d be found no matter what, it clearly mattered that it happened later rather than sooner. 

The “why” and the “want” had yet to be unraveled. Then again, Malcolm had nothing to do now but think. It wasn’t fun. Not for him. 

Something cracked under Malcolm’s bare foot and he pulled back. White. Tiny white shards in the dirt. Eggshells. He panicked out loud, staggered back and covered his mouth in a single motion. Did he crush it? Did he kill it!? He stared in horror at the cold ground-

. . . and crept closer. 

Squatted down to inspect the pieces, too fine and too few to make a whole egg. Malcolm exhaled. The panic dissipated. So it was broken before he came upon this part of the forest. He looked up and spotted a tangle of branches not far away. An overturned nest. The nearest tree seemed to stretch miles into the sky with knotty, dying branches. 

A horrible thought struck him. He inspected the forest floor from his spot. 

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

He spotted a forth one to his right, the owner of the shell he stepped on. Dried up. Motionless. Still pink, formed enough for one to tell that they were going to be a bird one day. 

It was plain to see what had happened. Maybe a storm came through. Or even just a terrible wind. It wouldn’t have mattered how soon Malcolm showed up. The baby birds would have died on impact once the eggs hit the ground. It happened sometimes. This, too, was nature. Another side of nature. But that didn’t make it any less sad to see. 

A fifth body lay in the dirt, closer to the trunk of the tree. Full grown, feathered bright yellow and green. Further away from the rest and equally still. It didn’t move when Malcolm approached it. But he stopped and leaned in again. The bird’s head gave the smallest twitch, chest puffing in and out as a being much bigger than her towered above. 

Alive. She must have been their mother. 

Malcolm stuck the knife back in the waistband and gingerly scooped her up in his hands. She was small, possibly underweight. Two pink notches sat atop her little beak. He had heard of these birds before. Budgies. Friendly, sociable sorts. They made good pets as far as the aristocracy was concerned. Mainly because they were low maintenance and pretty to look at or to listen to. But when left alone, they suffered greatly. Some even died. A mate was often recommended. One of their own kin or, well, something else. Even a human caretaker was better than . . . 

Malcolm looked back to the nest and the dead birds. Home and family, lost in one fell swoop. The budgie stared back up at him with small black eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” 

Several minutes passed. If the stranger from the prior night could have caught him then, it didn’t seem to matter. Malcolm set the budgie back down, took his knife and used it to dig a hole in the ground. Leaving them as they were just didn’t feel right. Death was death, no matter who or what it happened to. He found himself placing four dead birds in a nest, placing a nest in a hole in the ground and smoothing the dirt over them. He gave the pile of dirt a few firm pats, solidifying their fate, the final end and the eternal rest. 

He didn’t give a eulogy. There were no hymns. He'd only been around death as far as his dreams went. A priest or a coroner, he was not. Malcolm looked back to the dirt where he let the mother rest. The budgie still hadn’t moved. A thought came to him. “You hungry?” 

No response. 

He didn’t dwell on it for too long. Large green bulbs littered the ground nearby, having fallen from one of the healthier trees. With enough time and effort under the blade of the knife, Malcolm was able to peel back the green skin, break the shell and get to the walnut inside. 

He held the nut out to the bird. She didn’t acknowledge the offering. 

Refusal. Maybe his chances were ruined at this point. The walnut was covered in his scent by now. Animals didn’t take kindly to that sort of thing. Malcolm didn’t care. He broke the walnut into smaller pieces, as small as he could manage, and held it out to the bird. 

The bird didn’t move. 

“Hey, c’mon. You should eat something.” 

Still nothing. 

“Please, you have to.” Because . . . Well, nothing to say but the truth. No matter how hard it was. “There’s no one left now but you.” 

He had seen this before. Somewhere. Both with his fellow patients at the hospital and other faceless individuals outside of that. People had an innate need to be part of something bigger. A family. A group of friends. A cause, noble or otherwise. They could create great things with others and would go to terrible lengths for something outside of themselves. For something higher. Or something as simple as a moment of happiness amidst the struggle that was the space between birth and death. Malcolm was on his way there. Being at the hospital meant he had himself, mostly. Naturally, he got to focus on being better and healthier for himself. 

But if they truly had nothing, they often ended up like this. They gave up. They stopped fighting. Stopped living, laid themselves down before their time and waited. 

“. . . Please.” It couldn’t end like that. 

Silence. 

Stillness. 

And the bird let out a sound. Half a chirp, it seemed. She stretched her neck, nudging her beak against a crumb of the offering. And she took a piece, circling the edge with a series of small bites before stopping to chew. 

A smile broke out. Relief washed over him. Malcolm felt full. Full of joy and a heartbreaking sadness, all at once. It didn’t seem possible for something to feel so good and so hurtful at the same time, yet here he was. Here she was, standing up and climbing up on the inside of his wrist to eat directly out of his hand. “There you go. Good job.” He ran a fingertip over her feathers, soft and slow. “Take your time with it, ok?”

There was no question about it. No one in their right mind would leave the poor creature alone. 

“My name’s Malcolm. And you . . .” The answer to his quandary came to him quicker than expected. And yet it made so much sense. “I’ll call you Sunshine.” 

Sunshine took another morsel of crushed walnut and managed to get it down. It was slow, but she seemed to be getting her strength (and her will to be strong) back bit by bit.

“Doesn’t look like we have a whole lot right now. So we’ll just have to make our own for the time being.” Malcolm reached up to give the top of her head a gentle scritch. The budgie didn’t seem to mind. “And then everything’s gonna be ok.”

Something growled in the distance. The forest was becoming thicker again before them. A twig snapped behind the pair. Malcolm felt his hand tremble once more. 

“. . . I hope.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a forest can be home to lions, tigers, and bears, I'm sure it can be home to a parakeet as well. 
> 
> Also, I find myself questioning if I know what conflict is and how to write it. I'm writing a lot of this by the seat of my pants and I'm not quite used to writing multi-chapter fics yet. But hey, how are you going to get better if you don't write? 
> 
> Feel free to drop a comment and leave criticism. I always love hearing from you guys. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a review!
> 
> And yeah. Don't do drugs, kids. :)


End file.
